Jon II

Chapter Three - Jon II

"I am asking if there's something I can do to help you," Tyrion genuinely offered.

Jon shifted in frustration. He had come all this way to meet the Dragon Queen, only to have their first meeting end in a stalemate with the threat of being taken her prisoner. "Not what I would call a good start," Davos sarcastically noted afterward while walking from the throne room to their guest quarters. Jon felt the hope for his people's survival slipping away. He needed something, anything to go in his favor right now or he was truly a Northern fool.

He turned to face Tyrion, appreciating his attempt to mend the divide between him and the Queen. Diplomacy was a dance Jon was learning, and even still, it was as awkward to him as a drunken waltz. Seeing the genuine concern in Tyrion's eyes, he relaxed his stance and replied with the truest statement he could muster, "Well, I'm starving." Jon shrugged, his face lifted and smirked, "Can we talk about how you can help over ale and a rasher of bacon?"

"I prefer wine, in large amounts." Tyrion grinned back at Jon, the tension between them finally broken. Jon smiled as Tyrion gestured to the openness of the landscape behind them, "Now let's go back inside before I get blown off this cliff." It was the first real laugh Jon had in a long while. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed Lord Tyrion's company; the weeks on the Kingsroad to the Wall were made bearable by the discussions they shared. He was an honest man, nothing like his family, Jon mused as they headed back to the castle.

"So, where didya' get that scar? " Jon asked, his hand gesturing across his own face in demonstration. Tyrion's raised his hand to his cheek, feeling the ridge of scar tissue.

"At the Battle of the Blackwater. Here I was, worried about Baratheon soldiers killing me on the battlefield when all the while it was my sister who came the closest to doing the honor." Tyrion stated in his usual witty drawl. "And you, I see you have a similar scar, were you shaving or was it a jealous wildling girl?"

"Hah, neither. Eagle talons from a warg I killed," Jon responded, pausing a moment, "or maybe from the battle for the Wall. I've been fighting ever since I left Winterfell, it's all a blur as time goes on" Jon squinted a bit, feeling the tightness of the scar beneath his left eye. So many scars, he inhaled deeply, feeling the shallowness on his chest. Although the wounds remained angry and puckered, they were slowly healing.

"Warg?" Tyrion questioned eagerly. "As in skin-changing? Seeing through the eyes of an animal? I've read stories and histories of their existence among the Children of the Forest and the First Men. But they exist, truly?" Jon nodded in affirmation. "Hah! the wonders beyond the Wall, a sight to behold if it weren't so cold." Jon enjoyed Tyrion's enthusiasm, he felt very much the same when he found out about wargs. It was magical, something you dream of as a child, being able to run in a wolf pack or soar through the air like a falcon.

Are you able to see through your wolf's eyes?" Tyrion asked. Jon almost felt like saying Yes. Maybe getting Lord Tyrion to believe in magical powers and wargs will also help him to believe in the Army of the Dead.

"No," Jon lamented, "I have no power like that. Ghost and I have a connection, to be sure. He knows when I'm angry or hurt when I'm in danger. I imagine the Queen's dragons are much the same with her."

"Ahh, The Queen's dragons," Tyrion responded, "Eerily intelligent, problem-solving animals that make me feel like dinner every time I'm in their presence. The queen needs barely whisper a word and they obey without hesitation. She has the ability to charm even the most dangerous creatures to do her bidding," Tyrion smiled at his own words. "Daenerys has the love and dedication of all her subjects."

"So it seems." Jon quipped back, a knowing tone to his voice. The Queen's beauty was undeniable. As she stepped closer to him in the throne room yesterday, he could see the brightness of her eyes, her impossibly silver hair glowing in the sunlight. He shifted uncomfortably, looking away, thinking she would stop her advance at a safe distance. But she didn't. She moved forward, step by step, forcing him to meet her gaze with every reveal she uttered. He swallowed hard, his body tensed in anticipation as she stopped a few feet from him. She was fierce, formidable, this petite woman with her huge Dothraki bloodriders keeping close watch.

She was close, so close. She smelled of flowers and fresh air. Gods, she's gorgeous, he couldn't help but admit, taking in the sight of her beauty even as she threatened his freedom. But he held his composure throughout, meeting her arrogance with respectful defiance, he would not give her the satisfaction of having the upper hand. She was used to getting her way, but not with him she won't. He was a King, her equal. Sansa would be pleased I took her advice. Well, mostly anyway.

As they approached the castle, Tyrion suggested they head for the Guest Tower, as food and drink were surely waiting for them in Jon's solar at this hour. And he was right. The smell of cooked meat permeated through the stairwell as they approached Jon's guest chambers. They entered to find a small feast overflowing on the dining table, a plethora of meats, bread, and fruits, enough to feed 10 men. So much food, Jon thought, scanning the table - a platter of blood sausages and honeyed ham slices. Fresh bread still hot from the oven with fruit jams, butter, and various cheeses. Large, ripe figs and fire plums. A half dozen hard-boiled chicken eggs and a rasher blackened bacon alongside a flagon of freshly squeezed juice from an eastern fruit Jon had never heard of. A plate of steamed fish stuffed with crabmeat and cooked in butter and eastern spices that made his mouth water in anticipation. Flagons of ale and wine aplenty.

"The Queen's apology for yesterday, I'm sure." Tyrion gestured to the table as he began piling meat and bread on his plate, taking a seat at one end of the table. "As a wise man once said, The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach."

Jon removed his cloak and gloves and strode over to the table, eager to pour himself a mug of ale to steady his never-ending worry. This was his chance to convince the Queen's Hand to help in the fight against the dead. On the cliff, Tyrion conceded that he believed the White Walker threat was real. A fleeting win, Jon felt, but knowing and helping were two separate things. Right now, he had to choose the right words and allow no small talk or distractions. This was his last chance.

He poured the dark ale in his mug and drank half its contents in 3 gulps before filling up again. There was an intensity to his hunger this morning, grabbing a plate, he served himself a bit of everything the feast had to offer. He set the plate down across the table from Tyrion. Sitting, he leaned back in the chair, mug of cold ale in hand. Jon assessed a rare quiet moment from Tyrion, his mouth was full with sausage and bread as he poured himself a full cup of wine.

"Dragonglass." Jon stated matter of factly, breaking the silence of the meal. Tyrion looked up from his plate, his eyes quizzical under a curtain of dark blonde hair, asking for more detail than just the one word.

Jon took a bite of bacon and one more gulp of ale before delving into the story of life since their fateful last meeting atop the Wall. The Wildling Exodus and The King Beyond the Wall. Of Sam's discovery of the Dragonglass at The Fist of the First Men and the return later to find his Night's Watch brothers killed by the Army of the Dead. The remains of their horses laid out in a sacrificial pattern, half buried in ice. He recanted Sam's encounter with a White Walker and how it shattered like glass when stabbed with an Obsidian dagger. And finally, Hardhome.

Hardhome. He couldn't even think of it without a flood of pain and regret, failure coursing through him with each memory. He paused and drank deeply again, finishing his ale. He had not forgiven himself for Hardhome, he never will. It was a massacre. The extinction of the entire Freefolk population save the 5,000 he was able to ferry to safety. More than 100,000 lives lost in the blink of an eye. The life sucked from their bodies as an ominous cloud of snow and magic descended from the surrounding cliffs, engulfing the encampment - every man, woman, child and beast - consumed by the storm. The howl of wind and screams filled the air, suffocating all life in its path until only silence remained. Within minutes, the freefolk emerged as a horde of undead, blue-eyed wights, tearing down the fortress gate and massacring everything in sight. They had barely escaped and as his boat drifted from shore, Jon saw the living nightmare before him, a hellscape of death beyond imagining. The shock of it could never be properly conveyed to anyone and he couldn't escape it, it lived within him, deeper than wounds.

"...he raised his hands and they all stood up at once..."

Countless nights since Hardhome, Jon dreamed of the Night King; those blue eyes burning his soul, reaching to him from the dock. He was pulling the life from his body and Jon helpless to stop him. I felt death, it was real. His chest shivered hard at the memory.

Jon finished and stood abruptly, walking to the flagon of ale and poured another full mug. Frustrated at the need to have another drink this early, he set the mug down hard on the table, bracing his arms, his gaze scanning the feast before them. A feast before the famine, he angrily disheartened. How many of my people would this feed in the dead of winter? Gods, I can't even enjoy simple pleasures anymore.

Jon audibly sighed, letting his head hang for a moment before looking up to meet Tyrion's disbelieving gaze, "It will be the death of us all." Jon softened, steadying his voice. "Help us, my lord. We need Dragonglass if we stand any chance of survival. And somewhere on this island, there is a mountain of it."

For what seemed like an eternity, Tyrion stared up at Jon, soaking in all that just transpired. Tyrion reached for his cup and emptied its contents in one long gulp. Wiping his mouth and beard, he pushed himself back from the table and stood. Silently, he strode toward the chamber door. He stopped and turned, meeting Jon's patient yet anxious stare.

"Seems diplomacy is in order. I will make the case for you, Jon Snow, and there's no time like the present." Tyrion's stern face broke into a small smile as Jon exhaled in relief. Tyrion outstretched his hand and Jon closed the distance and reciprocated, shaking in mutual respect. For the first time, he felt hopeful since arriving on Dragonstone.

"Besides, no more wine for me. One slur and the queen dismisses the rest of my words as drunken dwarf nonsense." Tyrion quipped, straightening his coat. He looked at Jon, "I'll do my best, Your Grace, to convince Her Grace, to grant you this modest request." Jon saw the twinkle of jest in his eyes, he couldn't help but smile. It all sounded so foolish, Your Grace. He meant it when he said that they were all children playing a game. The generation that took part in the Grand Tourney at Harrenhall, that fought in Robert's Rebellion were mostly gone - killed in the War of the 5 Kings. It was their children that remained to pick up the pieces and fix the broken kingdoms their fathers had destroyed.

As Tyrion turned and left the chamber, he called over his shoulder, "To be continued, Jon Snow. We have many more stories to share and lots more wine to drink."Jon chuckled, closing the door and returning to the table for some more ale. He believed Tyrion. Well, I want to believe him.

His thoughts shifted to Daenerys. He'll go out and walk the castle grounds this evening, in hopes of catching the queen alone. Jon wanted to know more about her, to see what she was like without guards and formalities. They were of an age together, orphans in this wide world, trying to rule their people justly and fairly. They had much in common if she only knew. Her presence may have unnerved him, but he looked forward to seeing her again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the shriek of dragons overhead. Moving to the window, he looked up and saw all three of them circling above the castle, a tiny, silver-haired figure perched on the back of the largest dragon.The anticipation returned, a growing heat slowly enveloped his core as he watched this beautiful, mythical scene unfold before him, dragons swooping and dancing in the air. She was mythical, powerful. Alone in his chambers, Jon allows his thoughts to wander; the sensation of pulling her close, to bury his face in her hair, inhaling the wildflowers, tasting the soft skin of her throat. Don't fall for her, if only his body listened...

For now, he tried to push those thoughts aside, needed to focus on forging this alliance. Today will decide the fate of the North, and if else fails, Davos will smuggle them out of Dragonstone in the dead of night tonight.